di's Tragus story

The following is taken verbatim from my co-op's house journal
(except for anything in italics). The story was written to be read by my 12 housemates, who were for the most part unfamiliar with bodypiercing at all. I planned for the tale to be unclear as to it's subject until the very end. Try reading it from the perspective of someone who has never heard of piercing before. This was my very first pierce, so I wasn't all that familiar with it myself before I went.

My tale of Monday, Jan 2nd (1995) Okay, I showed up at 11:59 for my 12:00 appointment with Jock. A man answered the door. "Are you Jock?" "No, Jock is tending to my roommate, who is indisposed on the table right now. Could you wait out here? When he's dressed, er, when he's ready, we'll call you in." Okaaaaay... So I sat in the hall outside Jock's apartment, and seriously considered leaving. But no, I had waited too long for this.
Jock had sounded like he knew what he was doing, when I talked to him on the phone. Visions of what "indisposed on the table" meant are running through my head at this point. Here I sit, on the stairs outside this basement apartment, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Finally, that same man opened the door. "You can come in now." I entered the apartment, to a vision of sawdust covered benches, wheelchairs for furniture, and a variety of odd-looking wood-or-metal-working tools. Is that what Jock was going to use on me? I again considered leaving. The "doorman's" roommate proudly told me that he had just gotten a Prince Albert and a Frenum (see footnotes). (I included footnotes explaining what these names meant at the end of the story, since of course my housemates had never heard of them.)
Payment nonsense ensued. The roommates left, and I was left alone with Jock. He invited me to have a seat and offered me a glass of water. I declined.

TO BE CONTINUED

At this point in the story, I flipped ahead a few pages in the journal, hoping to increase the suspense-factor, before continuing .

The Saga of Jan 2nd continues

Jock examined my tragus and pronounced that there was ample room for the procedure. We made small talk as he prepared his instruments, including the highly technological bandaid-on-a-popsicle-stick. He then locked the wheelchair in place as I squirmed. He marked me, then prepared the shining needle. Deep breaths. Deeper, and yet deeper. On the count of three. One. Deep breath.
Two. Deeper breath. THREE! The penetration was painful, burning, and my fingernails dug into my palms as I tried not to cry out. Then it was through. I waited patiently, in pain, with the needle skewering my flesh, like a Heidi-kabob. Then came the burning pain again as the needle was pulled slowly out and the cold, wet ring was inserted. The worst was over. All that remained was to crank the ring into place, install the bead and pay the piper, er, piercer. Here ends the story.

Disclaimer: In spite of the implications above that Jock's apartment was less than sanitary, the piercing area (basically his dining room, which had a doctor's examining table and a wheelchair instead of a dining room table) was clean, and he washed his hands several times during the procedure, changed gloves a couple times, and was generally very professional about the whole thing. He had a good bedside manner as well. The bandaid/popsicle stick thing was used because he had just used his last needle recieving tube on the man before me.

Heidi Marie Anderson / heidi@tristan.physics.wisc.edu Written Feb 1, 1997.

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